Laura Ranone glanced at her watch when the doorbell rang. It read nine-thirty. She frowned, then shrugged. It wasn't as dark as she would have liked outside, but then again, Rosie couldn't come out too late. Things would be easier in the autumn. The Squib rose from her chair in the kitchen and passed through her apartment, which was furnished throughout with simple lines and pastel colors, flicked on the foyer light and peered through the peephole. A girl in a denim skirt and blouse stood outside in the hallway.

"Come in," said Laura, unlatching and opening the door. Rosie Hether smiled as she stepped inside, bringing with her the steady and comfortable feeling that filled any room she was in. "Very nice, by the way," remarked the lawyer, gesturing to Rosie's clothes. "Very Muggle. Like some orange juice?"

"Sure, thanks."

Laura went into the kitchen and pulled a half-empty bottle from the refrigerator, stocked so neatly with low-fat yogurt and whole-grain bread that it seemed almost bare. She reached up into the cup cabinet again at the last minute, realizing that she was thirsty herself, and her guest in the living room, caught in the door's glass paneling, picking up something by the arm of the sofa. She hastily put it back down and glance in Laura's direction. Ranone finished pouring.

She reentered the living room and handed Rosie the glass. The girl put it to her lips instantly, mumbling a thanks against the rim. The cup was half drained in the time it took Laura to sit down. The woman stared. "Sorry," the other smiled sheepishly with a bit of a gasp to her voice. "Thirsty."

"I could tell." Laura gestured for her to sit down, but Rosie remained standing. She gently set her juice onto the small table that sat in between the two couches, like a corner of the square, and asked, "Is that him?"

Ranone glanced at the photograph sitting beside Rosie's drink. "Yeah," she replied, trying her damnedest to sound indifferent. She failed. Rosie saw her frown and took a seat.

"Did you have any idea?"

Laura was sure that Rosie Hether was the only person in the world who could ask that question and ward off all and any awkwardness without effort. There was no accusation in her warm voice; no pity; only empathy.

"An inkling," she sighed, "But that was it. I mean, I hardly ever saw him." Her hand lingered over Paul Ranone's face before pushing it down against the table.

"Isn't he younger than you?"

Laura nodded.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't worry," said Ranone, waving off her apology, but not so successful in erasing the tense ball of her own emotions that had begun to swirl again. She took a deep sip of her orange juice to steady herself, then put it down. "All right, now, what's going on?"

Rosie leaned forward slightly, pulling at a tight curl of her hair. A subtle change had come over her features, one that struck Laura with just how young a mature woman could be. Combined with her next words, the impact sent her leaning back into the cushions.

"The birds thought we were trying to kill. They didn't understand, but now they might know something. The litter has surfaced."

Ranone crossed her legs and propped her elbow onto the sofa's arm, staring as the girl recited from behind her eyelids a scrap of parchment, whose message had been perfectly memorized (down to the idiosyncrasies of Frank's or Amanda's handwriting), before being burned seconds afterwards. Forefinger and thumb came to rest against the side of her face. "Oh, my God," she said, faint, after Rosie had fallen silent. "The children are out of hiding. Why?"

Rosie shook her head. "The Order must be on to something. But do you think they know?"

Laura glanced up quickly. "Dumbledore? No, no, it's hardly possible..." She trailed off. "Where were they?"

"We don't know that, either."

"My God." Ranone gave an incredulous laugh. She suddenly got up and paced, staring at the floor as she began to think aloud, waving her arm as though addressing a jury in the courtroom. "They thought we were trying to kill her. All this time...we thought we might have been found out..." Overwhelming relief was erased by apprehension. "But Dumbledore wouldn't just have them come out if he thought we still wanted her life--" She stopped and swiveled about sharply. "Would he?" Rosie only watched her. Laura resumed. "No, we can't count anything out. Even using children as bait." Her pacing came to a halt and she stood there for several seconds, holding her thumbnail between her teeth, not quite chewing it.

"Laura." Something in Rosie's voice shattered the silence in a way that snapped the attorney's head around; her nail scratched red along her cheek. The girl waited until she had the other's eyes. "Do you think we've read it wrong?"

Laura's jaw dropped a centimeter. When she spoke again, it was in a low, deliberate tone. "Where did you get that opinion?"

"I didn't. It's yours."

The apartment felt curiously thick. Finally, Ranone took enough steps towards Rosie to push the envelope of her personal space. "Did you read my mind?"

"No. I only have a photographic one," answered the younger, as seriously as she was asked. She remained seated, looking up into Laura's face with calm mildness.

Ranone pursed her lips. Amazing. She wasn't sure whether to be impressed or frightened. "No," she said at last, backing away and sitting down again. Half of her mind was still racing furiously. "I don't think any of the Nyormansi was translated incorrectly...although it's not impossible. I just think we may be assuming too much."

"What do you--"

An envelope came flying straight at Laura's head from the foyer, the zip of paper rubbing against wood still lingering in its wake. The Squib started and barely caught it in time before it caused any damage to the apartment that she could have sued the Ministry for. "For God's sake!" The wizarding way of having letters invade one's home and just about physically attack their receiver was a practice she found particularly annoying, bordering on the barbaric. She had toyed with the idea of stopping the crack between her door and floor several times. It was an expected irony that, upon turning the envelope over, the official seal of the Ministry stared up at her, along with a formal line of script declaring "Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic".

Laura sucked in her breath, glancing once at Rosie before opening the letter and unfolding the expensive stationary inside. She closed her eyes a moment later, sighing in relief.

"They took it?" demanded Rosie.

Laura passed her the letter. "They took it."

The girl read the brief message and nodded. "This is Mr. Longbottom's handwriting," she remarked.

"I thought so." Ranone smiled sarcastically. "No doubt our esteemed Minister couldn't bring himself to tell me the court order was valid. How on earth did she do it?" she added a moment later, referring to Amanda Longbottom, who had falsified the entire thing.

"Forgery and one or two bribes? I'll ask her."

"Look at the time I'm supposed to meet with Percy, too." Of course, Rosie wouldn't have to look at it again--she had already memorized everything. "My free day. Fudge told Frank arrange the entire affair."

"Probably," agreed the other. She chuckled dryly. "He's competent but harmless."

Laura remembered how distant insanity had lurked at the edges of Frank's gaze when they had first met; how even now his laugh was always too strained. Harmless, indeed.

"Well, what do you think we're assuming?"

Ranone hesitated. "Rosie," she said after a moment of thought. "Tell Frank and Amanda I want to meet with them before I see Percy. Them and you. Choose the time."

"And Neville?"

Laura raised an eyebrow. "I guess."

Realizing that she would get no more out of the attorney tonight, Rosie Hether finished her orange juice and left.

****

Trapped in the nightmare where Snape unwillingly, dutifully killed his parents again and again, while the dreamer's cries of denial fell on deaf ears; where a woman stood in the shadows beyond his mind's reach. Suddenly the world rippled and he was in a field swept by a dark wind, carrying a wave of clouds that threatened to block the sky forever and at his back he felt rather than saw Sirius, helpless, frantic, being attacked by the woman with blood in her hair: Rysk, whose final lunge at his godfather swore and cried and sang and radiated death, death-death-death--

Harry flailed upright in bed, a tangle of cold, sweaty sheets. He stared about into darkness, and the very absence of light seemed to flutter in time with his heart. But then he realized that the darkness wasn't darkness at all, but a film of cold, eerie light. His gasps were coming as quickly as his mind was racing, struggling between the reality of the waking world and pieces of a fading dreams. A nightmare, he decided distantly, putting his hand to his face and feeling tears.

Air from outside moved across his skin. He glanced at the open window, drapes billowing on the warm night's breeze. It took him a moment to distinguish the silhouette of an owl on his sill from the surrounding shadows. "Virgil?" asked Harry, still in a daze. He pushed back his sheets with shaking hands and swung his legs over the bed's side. It was fortunate that moonlight lit the way, otherwise he might have fallen and hurt himself.

"What are you doing here so late, boy?" Virgil merely blinked yellow eyes at him, huge in the dim room. Harry blinked back, and in a few moments his chest ceased to heave. He let out a pained breath and ran his hands through his hair, still damp. The boy's senses finally came flooding back to him, and he realized that he had not been asleep more than an hour; it was only eleven o'clock; and there was a small bag with a note attached to the owl's leg. Virgil waited patiently as Harry untied the articles (his hands had steadied, but he still fumbled with the string), ruffling his wings on occasion.

Purchased in Hermione's second year and kept at home during school in favor of Crookshanks, Virgil was a frequent visitor to Harry's room over the summer, which is why Hedwig had only opened one eye, then settled back to roost when he had landed on the windowsill. Harry opened the bag first. Cookies? He peered and pulled one of the objects out. Yes, cookies. Mocha chocolate chip cookies, much to his delight. He devoured three before he remembered the note.

Harry almost keeled over when he opened it. It was Ron's handwriting.

Harry,

I'm home. And I'm okay. Everyone's okay. You're not going to believe who took care of us while we were in hiding: Mundungus Fletcher. You know him, right? Nice chap. But he was a crying wreck when he came to bring us home. I thought he'd gone buggy. He said something about we couldn't understand what almost happened. (I'm really not supposed to tell anyone about him, but I guess it's safe to tell you). Anyway, I still don't know who's trying to kill me, or if they're still trying to, and it's driving me bloody mad. I don't know why I was ever jealous of you; having someone after your head isn't really much fun.

I've missed a lot. What do you know about Percy? Mum won't say a word and I have a feeling Dad's not coming home until I'm in bed. If I can even sleep tonight. You're testifying, right? Has the Ministry said anything to you?

Anyway, I'm going to go write Hermione now.

Take care.
Ron

P.S. Oh yeah, I'm using Herm's owl. She sent Virgil over with a letter for Mum just now and since Pig's too hyper and small to carry the cookies, I'm using him to send these over. They're from Mum, by the way. She says hi and be careful.

P.P.S. Bloody hell, Ginny's acting weird. Girls can be such buggers.

He was all right. Harry leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes in weary relief. Ron was all right.

After a moment, rational thought came back into place. Harry looked at the letter again, and this time his eyes were snagged by the name of Mundungus Fletcher. Harry's contact with the Auror had been fleeting, but still burned forever into his mind. It was Fletcher's face he had first seen after waking from a sleep that might have easily been death. The herbal tea scaled his throat and the smell of a tent-cabin in the Alps filled the room. He blinked hard and shook his head, clearing his senses.

It was hard to imagine Mundungus Fletcher a 'crying wreck'. Harry read and re-read the words, we couldn't understand what had almost happened. There was only one conclusion he could come to. "The Dementors," he breathed, sinking back down onto his bed. It had to be. His forehead creased sharply. "But what in bloody hell happened?" Or almost happened. Apparently, a threat had been averted, but not the threat. He would have received word from Sirius, surely.

Harry absently removed Hedwig's food and water dishes and set them in front of Virgil, who started in on them with relish. He stared at Ron's letter for a few more minutes, trying to draw the answer out of the words of a boy who had even less of an idea than himself about what was happening. He muttered a few curses and put the parchment down, wisely, for he was more than ready to dash his head against something hard. His hands clenched in painful, helpless frustration. Abruptly, Harry rose and dealt the upper half of his window a blow, much in the same manner as Arabella Figg so long ago. Both owls in the room started from their perches.

He pushed his fist against the panes and leaned his forehead against it, squeezing his eyes shut. For a moment his mind raced in pointless, angry spirals before he pushed away from the window and whirled about. He stalked across the room, snatched some warm clothes, and took Carmen Rysk's advice.

He went running.

****

"Rysk?"

The figure in the mouth of the hallway moved forward into the living room. Sirius rose from the chair, staring. Long blonde hair seemed to glint from the faint light of his wand, which lay glowing on the writing desk. "Sirius, what are you doing?"

Black stiffened. "Why did you do it?"

"What?"

"You didn't have to." The Auror's voice broke. His shoulders slumped as he extended one hand palm-up in a placating gesture. "You shouldn't have. I should have died, I should have just...stop trying to fix things...it'll kill you, please..." The words were brimming with tears.

"Fix what? What did you do?"

Black's eyes flamed into desperate anger as they looked into the other's face. "I didn't do it," he hissed. "For God's sake, I would never...! You don't believe me, do you? God, why don't you believe me?"

Remus stepped closer, alarmed and confused. "What are you talking about? We've been through this; I thought..." He cut off as sharply as his brow creased. "Sirius?" he asked, in a much gentler tone. He pushed the unbound hair from his friend's face. Black flinched. "Are you sleepwalking?"

"Just answer me, damn it!"

Lupin blinked and then closed his eyes with a sigh when he realized who Sirius thought he was. "No," he said quietly, silently cursing Carmen Rysk, "I believe you."

He made a strange sound of relief, something that sounded suspiciously like a sob. Remus encountered no resistance when he took Sirius by the arm and guided him back to his room. The other man collapsed back into bed and fell into a deeper slumber without ever waking up. Lupin pulled the covers up and then went back out into the living room, disturbed to say the least. He scanned the space, using Black's wand to look for something amiss in the shadows.

A breeze ruffled his pyjamas from behind. Remus turned and noticed for the first time that the window stood open. His jaw grew slack; he reached it in two strides and leaned out of it, scanning the sky. He ducked back inside, dread knotting thickly in his chest, and fairly ran to the oak desk. There lay an inked quill, its feather quivering beneath the night air. Lupin touched it in disbelief, no longer sleepy. "Merlin's...ghost..."

****

Harry ran the length of Privet Drive and back twice. When he stopped in his driveway, bent over with his hands on his knees, his throat burned with every breath, the insides of his legs were chafed and itching cold, and he felt as though his innards had sloshed into one liquid pile, but his head was marvelously, marvelously clear.

For a long minute the night and his blood pounded in his ears. Then he wiped his brow of lukewarm sweat with the back of his hand and straightened. Movement in the upper windows of the house drew his eyes. Aunt Petunia stood half-hidden by the drapes, staring at him with an inscrutable expression. Harry stared back, his chest still heaving, until his aunt stepped back into the darkness of her room.

Harry barely gave the incident a conscious thought as he staggered back inside. Normally he would have puzzled over it, but now he was too spent and his mind too set to even worry that his aunt would meet him in the foyer for a tongue-lashing. To his dull surprise, he didn't see so much as her skinny shadow between the front door and the bathroom, where he turned on the water and splashed it over his face and neck.

Virgil was gone when he reentered his room. Harry frowned as he stripped back down to his pyjamas, but not severely. He could always send Hedwig to Hermione tomorrow, or the day after.

Hermione was not vital. It was a beautiful feeling, to realize with pristine certainty what he should and must do. It was as though the summer air and the pounding of his feet had destroyed any trace of confusion: his friends were not in positions of power or knowledge; his friends were not vital. What was vital was that he stop reacting and start taking charge.

And the two vital people he needed to contact, first thing in the morning, were Laura Ranone and his godfather.

Not even Dudley's snoring could keep Harry from tumbling into bed and depthless sleep.

****

At nine o'clock in the morning, Fang suddenly broke away from Hagrid during the half-giant's ritual of feeding his latest (and most likely poisonous, deadly, and illegal on all seven continents) pet behind the hut. "Fang!" bellowed Hagrid, dropping a disturbingly massive bucket of feed and running after his hound, who had turned into a mass of crazed, barking snarls barreling straight at a man across the grounds. "Heel, boy! HEEL!"

Fang jerked to a stop, but not at Hagrid's command: he sat back on his haunches at the stranger's feet and abruptly changed his demeanor, wagging his tail and whining eagerly. Hagrid breathed a sigh of relief when he drew close enough to see who the wizard was. "Remus! Er, Professor Lupin, I should say," he amended quickly. "Terr'bly sorry, this confounded mutt...what're you doin' back so soon?"

"Hello, Hagrid." Lupin smiled wanly. "Never mind that, I'm not a professor anymore." He scratched Fang's head absently. "I'm just here to see the Headmaster."

Hagrid frowned. "Weren't you here yester--ne'er mind, it ain't none of my business. But haven't you gotten t' rest?" he finished gruffly, studying the man's gaunt face.

"I had more sleep last night than I've had for the last month," he replied, filtering the irony from his voice.

"Ah. Good t' hear, good t' hear." Hagrid glanced over his shoulder worriedly, suddenly unsure as to whether or not he had shut the cage. "Well, you've got important business, I won't hold you up..."

"Likewise," said Lupin, following Hagrid's gaze with a fond and knowing smile. "Take care, Hagrid."

The werewolf crossed the grounds that held his most precious and bitter memories and entered Hogwarts without challenge. He walked through the empty Great Hall, trying to ignore the whispers from a younger time. Even though he had sent no word in advance, Lupin was sure that Dumbledore already knew he was in the castle. In the very outskirts of the dungeons, he stopped and ran his hands over the cold stones, searching for one that would open a passageway often used as a boy avoiding Filch and Mrs. Norris. It was also a shortcut to the Headmaster's chambers and eliminated the chances of running into the school's sole other (living) occupant.

Severus Snape chose that moment to round the corner. He halted in surprise as Remus abruptly dropped his hands and stepped away from the wall. "Good morning, Severus," said Lupin coldly into the silence.

"Lupin," replied Snape. His own voice was too civil. "You look rested."

Oh? Is there one less bag under my eyes? "I am." This was an outright lie--while his psyche was no longer so frayed that Snape's presence overwhelmed him with a wave of guilt and shame, he certainly was feeling anything but rested. "Is the Headmaster in his chambers?"

"I would imagine; either that or in his office."

Lupin nodded and turned to take the long way, forcing his movements to look relaxed.

"Lupin!" called the Potions master sharply. Remus stopped and glanced back. Snape seemed to be at a loss as to what to say next. It made Lupin pivot about completely. "A word, if you please."

The werewolf cocked his head. "Yes?"

Snape simply gestured and began walking deeper into the nether corridors. Lupin hesitated, then ruthlessly squashed the anxiety in his gut and followed after. The Potions master led him into his classroom, wordlessly took a box from the shelves, and held it out to him. "The Headmaster asked me to replenish your supply," he explained as Lupin accepted the box and lifted its lid. Rows upon rows of glass vials lay nested in black cushioning. They were filled with the Wolfsbane potion. "Three vials make one dose."

Remus looked up. The lack of any sneer or derision on Snape's part made him suspect that Dumbledore had requested no such thing. (There was also the fact that whenever he received Wolfsbane from Snape, it was always at the last possible minute, and the vials were always thrown into a bag that was too large, so that something could shatter at any moment). "My supply isn't even half used up, Severus," he said dryly, unable to resist watching the man squirm. He was rewarded with a further stiffening of Snape's posture. Then, cursing himself for soft-hearted, he offered a sincere, "But thank you," going so far as to smile faintly. "Was there anything else?"

"No," he said coolly.

"Very well." Remus tucked the box under his arm and began to take his leave. He paused with his free hand holding the door open, halfway out. "You know, Severus, apologizing outright really isn't as degrading as you think. Try to work on it."

****

Harry tied the two letters onto separate legs of his owl, indicating that each was intended for a different recipient, and instructed Hedwig to fly to Sirius first, deciding that allowing Laura Ranone to see a blank envelope would not be a wise idea: even though he liked the attorney, he did not trust her not to open the second letter.

He watched Hedwig fly away, soaring to heights were she would not be spotted by Muggles, and then went downstairs. It was well past breakfast, and Harry was sure the Dursleys hadn't pined for his company. No matter, he planned to eat the salad Aunt Petunia had saved for him. The kitchen was empty: Uncle Vernon was at work and Dudley was upstairs playing video games. It was a very odd feeling, opening the refrigerator and finding that his aunt had indeed put away a bit of food from yesterday's lunch. Harry wrote it off as a freakish impulse on the woman's part and sat down at the table to eat in peace.

"Your mother used to run, too."

Harry nearly jumped out of his skin. His head jerked towards the living room, where Aunt Petunia was reading by the window. She hadn't turned on any of the lights, which is why Harry hadn't noticed her. "What?" he blurted out.

"Your mother," his aunt repeated. Her face did not look quite so sour in the sunlight, Harry noted distantly. "She said it cleared her head."

Harry's mouth worked. "...oh." Petunia never, ever volunteered information about his parents, especially unprovoked and especially about Lily. He retained enough presence of mind to not bring up what he had done last night. "All the time?"

"When we were girls," she replied, much to Harry's shock. He tried to imagine Aunt Petunia as a girl and failed. Miserably.

"Oh." An uncertain silence. "Um...this is good salad."

Petunia sniffed through her long nose. "Wasted on you," she snapped, going back to her book.

Harry gaped at her in consternation for a good length of time before finishing his salad, leaving the bowl in the sink, and escaping outside to the park. He did not even bother to ask for permission.

****

McGonagall shot out of her chair in alarm. "He owled her?" she demanded.

"Remus thinks so. Apparently Sirius mistook him for Carmen during his sleepwal--"

"What did he write?!"

"We don't know," said Dumbledore calmly. "Remus said he asked Sirius when he woke up. Sirius recalls nothing. Do stop pacing, Minerva, it doesn't become you. Enjoy your lunch. There is a silver lining to all of this, and that is that we now know for sure she is in America, or at least was."

"I've lost my appetite," said the witch blandly, continuing to walk the length of the teacher's lounge. "Merlin, Albus, she's dangerous! Do you know what happens when you study that book?"

Only the hesitation of the teacup at Dumbledore's lips betrayed how perturbed he truly was. "I know full well," he replied. "Grindelwald fell from grace, as the romantics are so fond of putting it, in the same way."

Minerva stopped in her pacing. "Grindelwald," she murmured with a short, mirthless laugh, reliving her own memories of the battle against that dark wizard. "She could be the next Le Fey."

"Oh, come now. Such unpleasant thoughts."

The Headmistress whirled about, staring hard at Dumbledore. The hard edge of steel in her eyes was one of the few things that could subdue the Headmaster, and now it was coming down full force. "Albus," said Minerva McGonagall, "Never in my life have I called you a fool, but you tempt me now. You tempt me sorely.

"That woman was a mistake from the beginning. A witch...a girl who could perform the killing curse without training, without a wand, simply through a thirst for vengeance! I do not know where your blind faith in her comes from, but I tell you that she has betrayed you now for the third time. She's more of a threat then the Dark Lord can ever be, because we have never brought the Dark Lord into our confidence!"

"Are you suggesting she will turn?"

McGonagall seemed ready to hex the old wizard into oblivion. "Suggesting? I suggest nothing! She will."

Dumbledore shook his head. "I grant that she is corrupt, but for every atrocity she has committed, it has been for us. For our cause, for the lives of innocents. She has sacrificed herself in ways I cannot order or allow and in ways no one else would. She will not turn."

Minerva stared at him. "You're a fool, Albus," she said softly.

And Dumbledore was alone.

****

Several days later, in the same hour Percy Weasley was released from Azkaban to take counsel, a woman entered a musty, aged store in Diagon Alley. Inside, shelves upon shelves upon shelves of thin, narrow boxes filled the vast space behind a counter that separated customer from merchant, and then even more littered the floor in haphazard piles almost knee-deep. The store's very air was filled with old things, ancient things, secret things once truth, once legend, now myth. Only the crackle of something raw and frightening and wonderful was more palpable, and the woman stopped in wonder, as all who entered did, while the door swung shut behind her.

Her eyes had to adjust to the dim light, but when they did, no attendant had come to serve her. A hinged section of the counter gave way with a quiet creak and she walked into the towering shelves beyond without hesitation. The dust on the floor thickened as she went deeper, preserving the print of her boots and muffling her footsteps. She seemed to have no purpose, occasionally trailing her hand over the boxes or nudging one that teetered on the edge of falling into a safer position. Finally, after weaving through several aisles, she stopped near the very back of the store.

"And the child returns."

She gasped and whirled about, the unseen knife flying out into her hand as a fluid, perfect extension of her will. The old, no, ancient wizard she faced regarded her with silver eyes, paying no heed to the cold blade at his throat. His creased, brown clothes that may have been woven centuries ago was a sharp contrast to wild white hair. "Well met, Ms. Rysk," said Mr. Ollivander.

Rysk stepped back and sheathed her knife, ruthlessly bringing her pulse back under control. "Well met," she replied evenly.

Mr. Ollivander nodded, looking her up and down. "A child no longer," he observed. "Perhaps you never were. Might I be of service?"

"You remember me."

"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Ms. Rysk," he replied. His voice was made of the same stuff as the air in the shop, fascinating and overwhelming. "It is still 'Ms.', isn't it?"

"You have a twisted sense of humor."

Ollivander tilted his head to the side, his eyes far more piercing than the witch was comfortable with. "You were one of my more interesting clients," he continued. "A dripping wet girl of the streets two years past the proper age with Albus Dumbledore one dark night, in my shop, in the middle of the school year. Yes, interesting. And now you return..." Grey eyes followed his hand as it reached out and hovered a hair's breadth away from the side of her face. "...sorely tempered."

"You sense it," she said as he withdrew.

He nodded, expression inscrutable. "But why does she return?" he mused, as though to himself.

"You found my wand back here," she said softly, turning away and gesturing at the stuffed shelves.

"Top row, near the very back." Mr. Ollivander nodded slowly. "Yes, yes. You were watching me like a hawk."

She hooked her thumbs into the belt loops of her jeans and leaned back slightly, watching the wizened man that was in many ways the only thread between her old life and what she was now. "You never said what it was."

Ollivander gave her another one of those stares. "Yeees," he breathed, laying a finger beside his nose. "Your wand. That was a most fascinating sale. Only two others can rival it, only two, and those depend upon each other."

"What was it?" she repeated. The words held a casual, deadly bite of threat.

Mr. Ollivander stepped closer, testing Rysk's personal space. She held her ground. "How old are you now, Ms. Rysk?" His breath smelled of cloves and forgotten places.

A hesitation, either over the answer to the question or whether to answer it at all. "Thirty-two."

"Mmm." That constant nodding, so odd, and so knowing. "And yet not a day over seventeen, am I right?"

For the second time within minutes, he caught her devastatingly off-guard: she started backwards, lips parted, brows knitted in shock. Emotionless grey eyes glittered to dangerous life for the space of a heartbeat. Ollivander smiled a brittle, curious smile.

"Do not worry--a secret is always safe with me. I carry eons of them." He tapped his head with a thin, gnarled finger. "Thirty-two," he mused. "Young. Very young. But! There it is. Why do you suppose I did not rattle off length, wood, and core that night?"

Rysk had recovered, and then some. "I wasn't ready," she replied with an extra layer of ice.

"And now, nineteen years older, nineteen years wiser! What about now?"

She looked away. A ray of sunlight skittered across the aisle; flashed in her platinum hair and crimson streaks. "I don't know how much time I have, Mr. Ollivander." She met his gaze. "I don't have time to be ready. I never did."

"A hundred years more bitter," he finished softly. "As you will." He held out his hand expectantly, and after a moment, she pulled out her wand and handed it to him. "Your wand is nine and a half inches, as I'm sure you already know. Dogwood. Flexible but not swishy. Good for duelling. But within...ah, within. A core this age of wizards has never seen in use, until you: the tears of a dragon. Crystallized. Ancient. Perfect."

Rysk stared at her wand as though she had never seen it before in her life; as she had when she was thirteen and frightened and shivering and confused. "Meaning?"

"Meaning? It means nothing," he said, returning the wand. "And yet...I think it is safe to say that you grieve, that you hurt, that you love, and deeply. Yes, so deeply that it becomes your curse and your power." Something in her expression flickered. "I think that you must, to wield such a core. Only one other witch could, you know."

"Who?"

"Deirdre of Ireland."

Ollivander watched as her eyes narrowed imperceptibly, glittering in disbelief, and for one second, fear. Then she brushed by him without a word. The old wizard remained where he was until he heard the shop's door open and close, letting in a burst of noise from Diagon Alley and just as abruptly cutting it off. He walked to the front of the store in time to see her blending into the crowd, tall and proud and fairly seething with the taint of the Dark Arts.

"The coldest child I have ever seen. The most beautiful child I will ever see," murmured Mr. Ollivander, following the witch with silver eyes that knew power not even Voldemort dreamed of. "Farewell, Carmen Rysk."